Autobiography and Fiction

How does autobiography work in fiction: Let's talk!

How does autobiography work in fiction?

“Anything can go wrong will go wrong” by Aziz Acharki on Unsplash

You know the line: Truth is stranger than fiction? I have a twist on that. I’ve learned through the writing of three books and a fourth in process as I write this essay that the fictional account of my stories have greater emotional truth and intellectual significance than the factual ones.

As memoir has increased in popularity¹ both in books and movies—“A True Story” being the familiar movie tag—I’ve continued to argue that fiction, written close to the bone, will likely provide the reader or film viewer with a deeper look into the life and soul of the writer if the narrative is worth your time.

Think first of this question: Do you think self-revelation is part of the process of writing?

My answer: Any serious writer who denies it, lies.

I agree with David Shields who argues in favor of self-revelation and to a large extent against the novel that is not self-revelatory. He does so in Reality Hunger through a series of quotes, occasionally his own—unabashedly without full attribution (but that’s another story) using only the name of the writer.

Here’s John Berger²

And later, the late David Foster Wallace³

A serious writer can’t help but reveal even as the lie of fiction operates.

Lee K. Abbott⁴ a writer and teacher I knew well and admired, has put the issue succinctly:

My collection of short stories includes three memoir pieces I don’t identify and I’ll use them here to explain why I argue the fiction is more powerful, more truthful, if you will, than the so-called true story.

First, I give as example a comparison of what is essentially the same story told in fiction and in memoir.

I put aside my novel Who by Fire (reviews and more here) when I was close to finished. My husband said after 22 years of marriage, oh-so-Greta-Garbo, “I need to live alone.”

This event stopped me in my tracks—and eventually, I blogged my life while I was living it. That blog was picked up by a publisher and became the memoir (Re)Making Love. That book like Who by Fire is a love story but oddly one that fiction would probably not find credible.

I learned through these two books that the fictional account of my story has greater emotional truth and intellectual significance than the factual one that you can find online at CNN and in the 2011 Valentine’s Day issue of Real Simple Magazine.

Here’s how I learned what the so-called true story didn’t reveal. I’m the reader for the audible.com version of Who by Fire. While reading it aloud in an NPR recording studio, I discovered my own book as if for the first time. I realized I’d written this novel to find the man I must have known on the unconscious level I was losing.

Good fiction, meaning you know while you’re reading that the writer is risking her life, can go to this place of hard truth in a way that memoir rarely can do because if its hold on the so-called truth.

In their book Art and Fear, David Bayles and Ted Orland explain our resistance to fiction—or to any art—this way:

“[T]he prevailing premise remains that art is clearly the province of the genius (or, on occasion, madness). … [A]rt itself becomes a strange object—something to be pointed to and poked at from a safe analytical distance. To the critic, art is a noun.

“Clearly, something’s getting lost in the translation here. What gets lost, quite specifically, is the very thing artists spend the better part of their lives doing: namely, learning to make work that matters to them. … [W]hat we really gain from the artmaking of others is courage-by-association. Depth of contact grows as fears are shared—and thereby disarmed—and this comes from embracing art as process, and artists as kindred spirits. To the artist, art is a verb.”⁵

I decided to further prove the force of fiction by revising the title character’s name to Olivia in each of The Woman Who Never Cooked’s⁶ stories. The allusion is to that character in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, the comedy that takes center stage in the story “Madness and Folly” about my father after he broke his hip—in real life. When I circulated what became the first edition of the ms., the main characters all had different names.

I could say that I’m hidden inside the fiction—but in fact, I am not. In the fiction, I used food and adultery as metaphor for the grief I bore through my mother’s, my father’s, and my sister’s illnesses and deaths. I wasn’t sure who I was. As a prime example, I didn’t know when I wrote “The Woman Who Never Cooked,” the title story, that I would become that woman.

I was writing direct, tough purposefully artful exaggeration of autobiography. Curiously, the book only achieved publication after I added two of the three memoir pieces that had been published in literary magazines. All the stories have been published first that way. See my essay, here on this site:

Literary Magazines: Why Bother?

The stories in the collection that are memoir are: “Rugalach,” a tribute to my mother; “Losing,” a tribute to my father; and the eponymous closing story “The Woman Who Never Cooked.”

Let’s talk about the fiction and why I’m now convinced each of the other eight stories is more powerful, more truthful than the memoir—with the exception of “The Woman Who Never Cooked.” I say this about the last because It’s written in third person like a fairy tale. The opening line is, “There once was a woman with 327 cookbooks who never cooked.” Through food, this true-to-its-core memoir tells the story of my mother’s, my father’s and my sister’s illnesses and the effect on living that their trials had on me.

I’ll use “The Burglar” that won two prizes and was published twice before appearing in the book of short stories to explain.

You’d think me mad if I’d written this as memoir because the actual burglar is alive with his own point of view—something only fiction can achieve without madness.

Even Robin Hood and Maid Marian appear in the story in an Internet game.

Robin Hood and Maid Marian, Sean Connery and Audrey Hepburn via Rotten Tomatoes

But the burglar himself is essential to express the love letter to my then-husband that I wrote in the aftermath of my mother’s death and a burglary that actually did occur in our home while we were away visiting both our children at college. These facts I compress into the story’s essence.

So where is the truth? Does Olivia actually desire the burglar? Does a burglar come to her home from his on Virgilia, a street near mine where the burglary actually occurred? Does it matter that I still own the locket that is in the burglar’s pocket and that the actual burglar chose all my other jewelry to steal and left behind the locket with its crude seal?

With that fact, the story wrote itself. Locket in hand that my mother had saved with a lock of her mother’s hair sealed inside, I went on the journey of discovery and the result is heartfelt fiction.

Joyce Carol Oates explains the conundrum of literary fiction so often spurned for the “true” story. She asks, “Where do we get our ideas?”

“So much of literature springs from a wish to assuage homesickness, a desire to commemorate places, people, childhoods, family and tribal rituals, ways of life—surely the primary inspiration of all: the wish, in some artists clearly the necessity, to capture in the quasi permanence of art that which is perishable in life. Though the great modernists—Joyce, Proust, Yeats, Lawrence, Woolf, Faulkner—were revolutionaries in technique, their subjects were intimately bound up with their own lives and their own regions; the modernist is one who is likely to use his intimate life as material for his art, shaping the ordinary into the extraordinary.”⁷

What I hope I’ve done here and for all the stories I’ve written that are quote fiction is to lift the curtain on that much-misunderstood word. I argue that to dismiss out of hand the truth that close-to-the-bone, self-revelatory fiction reveals is to miss a connection that may reveal to you those truths that would otherwise remain unspoken.

The reason? Fiction, like all the arts that reveal through artifice, frees the unsayable. Why oh why would any of us who read or go to movies or art museums or photographic exhibits wish to miss that unsayable truth because we want the true story.

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Mary Tabor is the author of short stories, novel, and memoir. Best advice she ever got: “Only connect …” E.M. Forster

Follow her at MaryTabor.substack.com.

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Footnotes

1. Leigh Gilmore, author of The Limits of Autobiography, notes that “…[T]he number of new English language volumes categorized as ‘autobiography or memoir’ roughly tripled from the 1940s to the 1990s. (Analysis based on data from the Worldcat database).

2. David Shields, Reality Hunger, “412’ John Berger, p. 139; ‘421,’ David Foster Wallace, p. 141, Alfred A. Knopf, 2010.

3. Shields, David Foster Wallace, Ibid.

4. Lee K. Abbott, “Fifty Years of Puerto Del Sol,” Puerto Del Sol, Vol, 50, 2015.

5. David Bayles and Ted Orland, Art and Fear, Capra Press 1997.

6. Mary L. Tabor, The Woman Who Never Cooked, Mid-list Press, 2006. Mary L. Tabor, The Woman Who Never Cooked, kindle version, Outer Banks Publishing Group, 2013.

7. “Inspiration and Obsession in Life and Literature,” Joyce Carol Oates, New York Review of Books, August 13, 2015.